a gorgeous old staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit vulgar—"wool" I think it was, or "cottons" or some other commodity; but his daughter is charming—I should say daughters, as there are two of them, so you needn't be jealous.
Lucy.Jealous? of course I am not. Have you known them long?
Harold.Oh! some little time. They are awfully keen to see my book. I am going to take—send them a copy. You see I must be civil to these people, they know such an awful lot of the right sort; and their recommendation of a book will have more weight than fifty advertisements. So good-bye. [Takes his overcoat.]
Lucy.Let me help you. But you are going without noticing my flowers.
Harold.I have been admiring them all along, except when I was looking at you.
Lucy. Don't be silly.
Harold.They are charming. Sir Humphrey has some orchids just the same colours; you ought to see them; he has basketsful sent up every week from his place in Surrey.
Lucy.No wonder my poor little chrysanthemums didn't impress you.
Harold.What nonsense! I would give more for one little flower from you, than for the contents of all his conservatories.
Lucy.Then you shall have that for nothing.
Harold.Don't, it will destroy the bunch.
Lucy.What does that matter? they are all yours.
Harold.You do your best to spoil me.
Lucy.[Pins the flower into his button-hole.]Don't talk nonsense. There!
Harold. What a swell you have made me look!
